


I Shall Wake And, But The Waking, Nothing Shall Repent

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Sandman
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossover, Dream Logic, Dream Sex, Dreams, F/M, Marriage, Missionary Position, Morrissey Lyrics References, Mutual Masturbation, Tori Amos Lyrics References, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-23
Updated: 2011-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose falls into a reverie, and the Doctor must strike a bargain with the King of Dreams in order to save her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Wake And, But The Waking, Nothing Shall Repent

**Author's Note:**

> It's not necessary to know about the Sandman fandom to appreciate/understand this story; it is a Doctor Who story.
> 
> A Note About The Rating: I use the "Mature" rating for even graphic descriptions of "vanilla" sexual acts between consenting adults--anything an adult couple might do together without crossing over into "kinky" territory--reserving the "Explicit" rating for kinky, non-con, violent, or potentially triggering sexual situations. The sex in this story is described graphically, with grown-up naughty words. Just so you know.
> 
> The lyrical references are not integral to the story, but if you are a Tori Amos fan (or a Morrissey SUPER-fan), you will find four references to the former and one to the latter. I always think of Tori when I think of Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" so it was sort of in the back of my mind and suited the story, but is by no means necessary to appreciating the work.

_ If I dream I have you, I have you,   
For, all our joys are but fantastical.   
\--from Elegy X: The Dream, by John Donne _

__

Rose was wrapped up in the Doctor’s leather coat, beneath it only the little shorts and tank top which she wore to sleep. Barefoot and with her hair loose and unkempt, she tucked her legs beneath her as she lounged semi-upright in bed. She pressed her face into the pillow the Doctor had been lying on and inhaled deeply, his scent like a campfire on a beach--warm wood, a hint of salt. She hmmed with satisfaction, remembering their legs tangled together, his big hands on her hip, behind her neck, in her hair. Soon she felt the familiar, urgent warmth spreading through her and she longed for him. Where had he gone?

“Good morning, Rose,” the Doctor said then, pushing through the door and crossing the room toward her bed. That grin. “Rise and shine, Sleepyhead.”

  
Rose shifted lazily, gave a purring growl, had to make a conscious effort to focus her eyes on the Doctor, who was wearing his own leather coat. Rose was tangled in her blankets as usual.

  
The Doctor was cheery. “Ready, then? Time to start a new day. Don’t know how you can waste so much time asleep when there’s stuff like the Martyrdom Nebula to see--red as blood, but all a-twinkle--it’s really something! And we’re going to be upon it in an hour or so.”

  
Rose wrinkled her nose and looked at the Doctor through one squinting eye. “Mm,” she said, “I was having a dream.”

  
“Good for you,” the Doctor said, sincere but impatient. “Go on, get dressed. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He turned and slipped out of her little room. He left the light on overhead so Rose could not fall back to sleep .

  


“Morning person,” she muttered accusingly. She pushed back the covers and swung her feet to the floor.

  
The Doctor was fidgeting with the main console of the TARDIS when Rose emerged a bit later, hair combed, hoodie zipped, shoes tied.

  
“What’s this thing, then?” she asked, “This Martyrdom Nebula?”

  
“Well, officially, it’s just a bunch of interstellar gas and dust, but seen from an appropriate distance, it’s a stunner!” The Doctor took Rose’s hand and lead her toward the doors of the TARDIS, which he flung wide open. Outside, almost to the edges of their vision, was a silky, violet-red cloud full of sparkling stars, like diamonds floating in an ocean of blood.

  
Rose’s eyes widened.

  
“Whatcha think?” the Doctor asked. He sat on the floor of the TARDIS, legs dangling over the edge into space, and he tugged at Rose’s hand until she knelt down to join him.

  
“It’s a stunner, all right,” she agreed. “Really, really beautiful.”

  
The Doctor was still holding Rose’s hand, resting palm-up on his knee. He raised Rose’s hand to his lips and planted a kiss in the center of her palm. Rose let out a small gasp.

  
“I want you to see something beautiful, every day, for the rest of your life,” The Doctor said, his lips brushing her fingertips. “And I want to be the one to show it to you.”

  
Rose leaned toward the Doctor and steadied herself against his shoulder. He slid his arms around her. Rose’s eyes fell shut, and they kissed.

  
“Rose, where’ve you gone?” the Doctor asked suddenly, and when Rose opened her eyes, they were standing next to the console. The Doctor looked at her curiously. “Lost in thought, were you?” he asked, and though he tried to sound casual, there was concern behind it.

  
Rose shook her head as if reviving. “Yeh, sorry. Daydreaming, I guess.”

  
The Doctor aimed the sonic screwdriver at her eyes and looked into them. “Follow my finger,” he said, moving his hand left to right in front of her. Rose mildly swatted it away.

  
“You’re not that kind of doctor,” she reminded him. “And anyway, I’m fine. Promise.”

  
“Mm,” the Doctor assented, and examined the video monitor. “Anyway, the Martyrdom Nebula. Ready to be dazzled?”

  
Rose grinned. “Always,” she replied.

  
“Follow me, then,” the Doctor told her, and moved toward the doors of the TARDIS. He yanked them open with a flourish, then drew himself up in surprise. “Where’s it gone?” he asked, leaning out as far as he was able, craning his neck round the TARDIS to see if what he was looking for was to their left or right, or even behind them.

  
“Whoa!” Rose cried, and instinctively grabbed him around the waist, pulling him back inside. “Please don’t do that,” she urged. Then, hoping to cover her fear with a joke, she added, “You know. . .Endlessness of space and all that.”

  
The Doctor closed the TARDIS doors and bounded back to the console, where he examined the monitor, typed and tapped here and there, made thoughtful sounds. “If it’s springtime in the Northern hemisphere of Rasmus-4, and--wait, has the Great Pflaffen Meteorite Blizzard happened yet?--then make allowances for the jet lag. . .”

  
Rose smiled, “Well, while you’re looking,” she said cheerily, “I’m going to find myself something to eat.”

  
The Doctor nodded absently. “Two months west of Spy-Ru-Kich. . .at least, I thought. . .”

  
The dining area of the TARDIS, having been hobbled together over many years by the Doctor, who had no real concept of the way humans cooked or ate or stored food, was well deserving of the title, “Mess Hall.” Rose kept a drawer full of Cadbury Flake and Galaxie bars, and had packed the too-small fridge full (cider mostly, but sometimes also a carton of eggs or the leftovers of a takeaway). There was a walk-in freezer, as well; currently its contents were a case of Ben & Jerry’s “Chubby Hubby” (minus one pint) and a lonely tray of ice cubes.

  
Rose poured a bowl of chocolate-and-peanut-butter cereal, and splashed in some milk. She rooted around in a bushel of spoons until she found one semi-appropriate for the current task (not slotted, not for an infant, not a ladle). Turning toward a stool beside a rather pubby wooden bar, she found that the whole length of the counter was absolutely piled with flowers of every shape, size, colour, and fragrance--some familiar, some almost impossibly exotic, with petals that shimmered and shifted luminous irridescence, leaves that played music, thorns made of metal. Rose’s jaw dropped.

  
Behind the long pubby bar was a long pubby mirror, and Rose saw herself reflected back, chest-deep in flowers--did one of them smell like gorgonzola cheese? Behind her, though, was not the reflection she expected to see--the counter with the spoon-basket, the mini-fridge, and the microwave-that-wasn’t-really-a-microwave because it used some other waves she couldn’t remember the name of. What she saw was candlelight, white tablecloths, sparkling crystal glasses.

  
Rose turned around and where the mess hall had been was now an elegant restaurant, all the tables fussily laid with a few dozen pieces of gleaming flatware, little stacks of china plates and bowls, bottles of champagne chilling in metal pails full of turquoise-blue ice, more flowers in artistically understated arrangements of heights meant not to interfere with intimate conversation.

  
“Doctor?” Rose called--puzzled, delighted, still holding her bowl full of KoKo Kracklers and her not-quite-right spoon.

  
A white-gloved, tuxedoed butler with a cloth draped over his forearm and no face or head to speak of--more a concentration of glowing, silvery mist--pulled out a chair and motioned for Rose to sit down. She slid hesitantly into the proffered seat, which had an intricately carved, rose-gold back and legs.

  
“This is new,” Rose mused aloud, still gazing around the room. It seemed to go on forever, table after table, in every direction like when two mirrors face each other. Rose took a bite of the cereal, chewed thoughtfully. Through a mouthful, she called again, “Doctor? This is lovely, but not really my style. More of kebab-van girl. . .”

  
All at once, the Doctor’s hand was on her shoulder. “Rose?”

  
She lifted her gaze toward him, and she was back in the mess hall, blinking at the overhead lights, trying to make out his face. The Doctor pressed the back of his hand to her forehead; she was lying stretched out on the wooden bar.

  
“Are you sure you’re all right?” the Doctor asked, giving her a hand up to help her sit.

  
“Yeah, no, I feel fine. I guess I was dreaming. Was I asleep?” Rose hopped off the bar onto the floor. “I don’t know, maybe I am sick. Why would I fall asleep there? I just came in for something to eat.” She put one hand on her abdomen, the other on her cheek. “No, I don’t feel sick. I feel fine. I was having this dream--”

  
The look on the Doctor’s face was a familiar one.

  
“What sort of dream?” he asked tersely.

  
“Nothing bad or strange, really--a restaurant.”

  
“A restaurant.”

  
“Yeah, with this waiter--he was made of. . . fog, like? Oh, and the flowers--”

  
“Flowers.”

  
“Yeh, this whole counter here was just heaped up with them, every kind I could think of and then some.” She looked at the Doctor under her lashes.  “I thought you did it. You know, for me.”

  
The Doctor pursed his lips.

  
“It’s weird, though. . .I don’t feel tired,” Rose said. “Why would I fall asleep?”

  
“I can’t say,” the Doctor replied. “Something odd is going on, though, because there’s no reason the Martyrdom Nebula should be missing, either.” The Doctor took Rose by the hand and pulled her back toward the main console of the TARDIS. He went back to studying the video monitor, flipping switches, even licking his fingertip and testing the direction of the wind.

  
“Do you mean the Martyrdom Nebula’s meant to be here but it’s not, or the TARDIS took us to the wrong place?” Rose asked.

  
“Neither,” the Doctor replied quickly. Then he added, “Not sure.” A moment’s pause, then, “Both.”

  
Rose couldn’t help but smile. It was so seldom the Doctor looked as puzzled as he did right now.

  
He glanced at her for just a second and then returned to his work, asking, “How about you? Feeling all right?”

  
“Oh, I feel fine,” Rose replied, and began to walk her fingers up his arm and across his chest. “Just. Fine.” In a single motion, she ducked under the Doctor’s arm and pressed herself against his chest, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him down to meet her kiss. Their tongues worked urgently in each other’s mouths and the Doctor reached for the hem of her skirt, pulling it up. He easily lifted her, his hands under her bottom, and Rose braced herself with her palms on the console, her inner thighs hugging his hips. Rose let out a gasp and kissed the Doctor again as he undid his trousers. In a moment he was guiding himself into her and she was shivering at the pleasure of it.

  
“Rose,” he whispered raggedly against her ear. “Oh, my own Rose.”

  
She kissed his jaw, his neck, moved her hips against him.

  
“Rose,” the Doctor said again. “Rose.” His voice was louder, serious. “Rose!”

  
Rose was vaguely aware she was quite uncomfortably sprawled across the console, her feet still on the floor and her arms tucked under her head. She turned her head away from the Doctor’s voice.

  
“No,” she said thickly. “. . .Lovely dream. . .”

  
“Rose, wake up.” Arms around her, a feeling like floating, the Doctor lifting her behind her back and under her knees. “Try to wake up, now,” he said.

  
She shook her head slowly, the scent of his leather jacket in her nose, the feel of it against her cheek.

  
“No, I want to sleep,” she slurred. “I’m having a dream.” Here was the Doctor’s neck above his collar; she brushed her lips against it. He was carrying her.

  
He was carrying her over the threshold into one of those huge American-TV-show flats, with four or five bedrooms, a mix of furniture from mid-century moderne to thrift-store to ultra-chic, and a freight lift that opened right into the living room. Rose was in her diaphanous, chiffon wedding gown, with her red-soled shoes dangling from one of her fingers, her long lace veil wrapped around the Doctor like a shawl. He looked like a daguerrotype, in a dark morning coat, wine-coloured waistcoat just visible beneath, charcoal grey necktie in a complicated knot.

  
Rose kissed his cheek; there were already a few lipsticky marks here and there on his face. She felt pleasantly dizzy and bubbling.

  
“Champagne!” she lilted, “We must have more champagne.”

  
The Doctor set her gently down on the fluffy-puffy sofa, unraveling himself from her veil as he moved toward the gleaming, stainless-steel and granite kitchen.

  
“Your wish is my command,” he said cheerfully, and much quicker than it should have been, Rose heard a pop and a small splash and the Doctor was lowering himself down beside her on the sofa, proffering a glass of sparkling pink wine. When Rose sipped it, it didn’t taste, really, it just sparkled.

  
Rose leaned her head on the Doctor’s shoulder.

  
“What was your favourite part of today?” Rose asked, and was vaguely aware she couldn’t remember anything before coming through the door, other than being in the TARDIS eating cereal.

  
The Doctor held her hand, admiring the rings she wore, which were dazzling and enormous. “I thought Captain Jack’s speech was some of his best work,” the Doctor said, “Really just classic Jack.”   
Instantly Rose recalled Jack toasting the two of them, people laughing, a tear in Jack’s eye, an “Aww” from the crowd.

  
“It was good, yeh,” she agreed.

  
“What about you?” the Doctor asked, easing out of his shoes--Rose was amused to see his socks were striped red and white, like Raggedy Andy’s. “What was your favourite part of the day?”

  
“When you told me your name,” Rose replied, but even as she said it, she felt a sinking, betrayed sort of feeling in her chest, like something collapsing and a hole where there hadn’t been one before. “Only you didn’t,” she ventured. “Did you?”

  
The Doctor shook his head. “No.”

  
“No,” she echoed. “It’s all right, though.” Comforting herself.

  
“Just wake up, Rose,” the Doctor said then, and his tone was different. “For the sake of  your life, you’ve really got to wake up.”

  
Rose pulled her hand out of the Doctor’s and clambered off the sofa. She didn’t look at him, ran out onto a balcony with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, the London Eye, and the Eiffel Tower.

  
Mickey was there, leaning over the railing, smoking a cigarette. Rose’s dress was dingy and in shreds like she’d been wearing it for a year.

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

  
“Waiting. Like always.”

  
Rose looked behind her but the apartment was dark; all she saw was her reflection in the glass door.

  
“What have you been doing?” Rose asked. “I miss you.”

  
“You don’t,” Mickey replied matter-of-factly. “It’s all right, though.”

  
“That’s what I just said,” Rose said, puzzled.

  
“Saw yr mum down Tesco’s the other day,” Mickey went on. “Mad Bill had a party, too, for Lara’s birthday. Shireen was there and she asked for you--I think she’s going with Neil’s brother now. Neil says hi, by the way.”

  
“. . .hi. . .” Rose managed. She felt lost, and longed to go back inside but without even trying the door, she knew it was locked. And anyway, there was something in there that she’d just have to run from. Her without shoes, and all.

  
“Rose, you’re dreaming,” the Doctor said, behind her, and she spun at the sound of his voice. He was dressed as normal again, black t-shirt and leather jacket, and his face was all angles, no softness like before.

  
“It’s all right, though,” she told him.

  
“It’s not all right,” the Doctor replied, “Really not right at all.” He grabbed her by the arm--hard--and shook her.

  
“Oi!” Mickey protested, stepping forward with his chest puffed out. “Don’t you start shoving her around.”

  
“Mickey, this isn’t the time,” the Doctor said condescendingly.

  
Mickey stepped in closer, putting himself between the Doctor and Rose. “Take your hands off her,” Mickey demanded.

  
Rose tried to pull Mickey away. “I’m all right,” she protested. “Everyone stop shouting.” Mickey’s hand slipped out of hers, and she noticed her palms were bloody, as if Mickey’s skin had scraped or cut her. She wiped her hands carelessly on the skirt of her dress and when she checked her palms again, it was as if they had never been injured. She looked to the Doctor for an explanation, but he wasn’t even looking at her.

  
“Mickey, you’re not even here right now,” the Doctor said then, and suddenly he was tugging Rose along beside him toward the glass door to the flat, which was much farther away than it had been, and it was true, Mickey wasn’t even there.

  
“Let go of me,” Rose demanded, pulling herself loose from the Doctor’s grip. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own, you know.” Rose felt petulant and a little drunk. The Doctor let go of her arm. His face softened and he spoke quietly.

  
“Rose, listen to me. You’re dreaming. You need to wake up.”

  
“What are you talking about?” Rose asked, annoyed. “How could I be dreaming when I’m standing here talking to you?”

  
Two little girls ran out through the glass door then, barefoot and in purple dresses, and it was daylight--summer time, afternoon. They giggled and chased each other, eventually coming to cling to the Doctor’s legs.

  
“Look at them,” Rose sighed proudly. “Daddy’s girls.”

  
“Daddy, pick me up!” sing-songed the littler one, the one with the blonde hair in a bouncy tail on the top her head.

  
“No, me first!” the older one demanded. Her hair was darker than her sister’s, but they both had the same blue eyes.

  
Rose took each of them by the hand, scolding, “Isn’t it time for little girls to lay the table for tea? Leave Daddy alone for a few minutes.” She shooed them toward the flat with an enormous smile on her face. “Go on!” she added, “It’s Mummy’s turn to cuddle Daddy, anyway!”

  
The giggling pair disappeared through the door to the flat and Rose leaned her back against the Doctor’s chest, pulling his arms around her waist. “Aren’t they lovely?” she asked quietly.

  
The Doctor leaned down to kiss Rose’s cheek. “They are indeed,” he replied. “We’ve got the world on a string, don’t we, Rose?”

  
Rose whirled around to face him, the Doctor’s hands on her hips. She raised her hand up between their two bodies, and there was a green string tied around her finger where her wedding rings had been. At the end of the string, hanging between them, was the blue-green Earth, sparkling where the big cities were, with clouds drifting all around it. Rose stared, mesmerized by how beautiful it was, how fragile and alone.

  
She gasped and looked wild-eyed at the Doctor. “I’ve got to put it back,” she told him urgently. She worked the knot loose from her finger, swung the planet by its string, flung it skyward and watched it sail up and up and up, getting bigger instead of smaller as it traveled.

  
The Doctor stared hard into her eyes. “Rose,” he said, “Wake up.”

  
Rose lay her hands at the sides of the Doctor’s face and pulled him toward her. They kissed and she felt warm from the top of her head all the way down to her feet. She curled her bare toes against the cement floor of the balcony. The Doctor’s hands on her back pulled her closer to him and Rose felt as if she were melting.

  
The Doctor broke the kiss and when Rose opened her eyes, they were back on the deck of the TARDIS. She still wore the tatters of the wedding gown, though now it was black instead of white. The palms of her hands bore intricate designs like henna tattoos; she recognized the swirls and dots as the Doctor’s Gallifreyan language.

  
“What do they say?” she asked, showing him her palms.

  
“They say that I will always keep you safe,” the Doctor replied, and he kissed the fingertips of her right hand. “Because you are my own Rose.” He kissed he left wrist. He encircled her in his arms. Rose lay her head against his chest, closed her eyes, felt a rush of bliss.

  
“Rose,” the Doctor intoned, and she did not like the scolding quality of his voice.

  
“Shh,” she replied. “This is perfect.”

  
“You’re lost, Rose. Try to find me.”

  
Rose raised her head and protested, “Find you? But you’re right here--” but as the words escaped her lips the walls and floor seemed to bend and shiver, and suddenly she stood alone in a vast desert of snow. She wasn’t cold, though her arms and legs were bare. Distantly, on the horizon, a small figure appeared. Faster than Rose expected, the figure closed in. Thin as a whip, tall as a lamppost, with a shock of tangled hair and a long inky coat that moved like mercury around him, the man seemed to glide rather than walking.

  
Rose looked around. “Doctor?” she called, though not loudly. Her voice seemed to splinter in the brittle air.

  
The approaching figure stopped just a few feet away from Rose. He lifted a pale, long-fingered hand to sweep his black hair away from his eyes, which were night-dark and sparkling.

  
Rose felt as full of astonishment and awe as she ever had, her knees buckled, and she fell, her arms flailing to find some support where there was none. She landed palms-down in the snow.

  
“Stars in his eyes. . .” she breathed, and her awe turned molten, low in her belly, until she was flushed with arousal and her breath came heavier. She moistened her lips with her tongue, slipped one hand down between her thighs.

  
Another glance at the black-cloaked man and Rose fell in love with him, her heart swelling to burst with the ache of adoring him. She wanted to devour him, to put him in a locket she wore above her heart, to tattoo him on her skin, to breathe him in forever and never exhale. She stretched out, face down in the snow before him, like a supplicant.

  
“Don’t,” he said then, and it was as if his velvet-whisper voice was inside her head and coming from his mouth, both at once.

  
Instantly, Rose scrambled back onto her knees, but did not stand.

  
“Do you know who I am?” he asked, then. He was terrifying, comforting.

  
Rose shook her head no, but even as she did so, she knew.

“Lord Shaper,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” was the reply.

“King of Dreams.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, a breeze--the scent of stale roses and dust in it--then stillness. “And who are you?” the King of Dreams inquired.

Rose shook her head again, but again she knew. “The Bridge.”

“That’s right.”

“The Ribbon of Light,” Rose murmured. As she spoke, it seemed a glowing white ribbon encircled her, loosely entangling her torso and limbs; one end stretched out toward the dark-cloaked man--Dream of the Endless--and the other end extended out behind her. Rose could not see where it ended, but she was sure it was with the Doctor.

“Yes,” confirmed the Dream King. “You are the Ribbon of Light tying the elusive time-traveller to the Dreaming. I have waited for you a very long time.” He drifted closer to Rose as he spoke, his pale, long-fingered hand reaching out as if to touch her, to bless her. Rose, mesmerized, bowed her head as he approached.

 

“Lord Morpheus.” The Doctor’s voice was stern, and Rose’s head snapped up to look at him; he had appeared quite suddenly beside her. The Dream King’s hand hovered in the air near Rose’s head for a moment, then he withdrew it and it disappeared under his robe.

 

 

 

 

The Doctor extended his hand to Rose and she took it; he helped her to her feet, then guided her to stand slightly behind him. He squared his shoulders and stood face to face with the Dream King.

“Lord Doctor,” replied the King of Dreams, in a tone much less strident than the Doctor’s had been. He nodded deferentially. “How pleasant it is to meet you again.”

Rose leaned over the Doctor’s shoulder, lifting herself on tip-toe to speak into his ear. “Stars in his eyes,” she said softly. “I’m the Bridge. It’s all right, though.”

The Doctor addressed the Dream King in a firm voice. “Release her.”

The Dream King half-smiled, and said nothing.

Rose felt herself go hot, then cold. In an eyeblink, everything changed.

She stood alone near the edge of a cliff. Far below was a blacker-than-black sea whose waves sounded like softly moaning women as they rolled toward the rocky shore. The sapphire-coloured sky was mad with stars. Three moons hung there, each in a different phase, the largest one full and haloed in shimmering golden mist. Rose turned away from the sea and the moons, toward an enormous palace with pearlescent white walls and towers that spiraled up so high she could not see their spires. The people she could see through windows and in courtyards wore placid, thoughtful expressions on their long faces, and Rose knew they had irridescent wings folded against their backs beneath their white cloaks.

The Dream King spoke from somewhere behind her--and inside her head--his voice like a caress over every inch of her skin. “That will do nicely. I thank you.”

To Rose, the Doctor’s voice when he next spoke sounded like a scratchy old-fashioned recording playing several rooms away. He said, “Rose. Wake up.”

“I’m having a dream,” she murmured, and now she was back in bed, in her room aboard the TARDIS, with that welcome, heavy feeling of her thick blankets weighing her down, urging her back to her dreams.

“Rose!” the Doctor called frantically, but so far away, so quiet, like he was calling her from long ago.

“Few more minutes,” she whispered.

In her dream she sat on a massive red cushion in a room draped with silks, watching intricate dances performed by curvaceous women with countless unjointed, tentacle-like arms. The music that accompanied them was chiming, mathematical, engrossing.

Lounging on a cushion nearby, his elbow resting on his raised knee, the Dream King seemed to be molding something in his hand as he said, “Another most deeply appreciated gift.”

“Rose!” came the Doctor’s distant voice again. Rose, eyes mostly closed, buried her face in her pillow, which smelled like the Doctor. “Find me, Rose!” the Doctor urged.

Rose sat hugging her knees on a tiny platform atop an enormously tall pole. Far below, the Doctor and Morpheus sat on thrones of woven twigs, facing each other across a table on which there was a chess board but no chess pieces.

“Doctor, I can see you,” she said, but the air stole her voice as the words left her lips, carrying it away on a breeze that smelled like ash.

“You and I have much in common, Lord Doctor,” the King of Dreams said, his hands in prayerful attitude below his chin. “Both with infinite realms to explore--and manage--but ultimately, quite alone.”

The Doctor’s hands were palms-down on the table; his back was very straight. “But I’m not alone,” he asserted. “I have Rose. Or, I had her. Until you hijacked her.”

The Dream King did not react to the Doctor’s accusation. “When I first learned of you, Lord Doctor, and of your people, the Time Lords--I’m terribly sorry for your loss, by the way--it was the first time I really contemplated the possibility that there are things in the universe that cannot even be dreamed of by the human mind. Because while their dreams are inventive and their imaginations quite remarkable, humans’ dreams blossom from seeds of their experience.

“My realm is infinite, yet bound on all sides by the limitations of human imagination. Even the most fanciful nightmare. . . an enormous demon with sixty bleeding eyes and a hunger that never ends. . .begins with what the dreamer knows, or thinks he knows: Demons. Eyes. Hunger.”

The Dream King leaned in closer to the Doctor as if sharing a confidence.

“You, though, Lord Doctor, have seen things in your travels that a human could not begin to conceive. If I could mine your dreams, your distant planets would be the backdrops, your alien beings the players, your shifting streams of Time the music for so many dreams. . .countless nightmares, as well. If I could access the things you’ve seen, the Dreaming would be unbound.”

The Doctor set his jaw.

“But I don’t dream.”

Morpheus sat back in his chair again, casually resting his cheek against the palm of his hand. “There’s the rub,” he said, with a half-smile. “You don’t dream.”

Rose, watching them from above, caught sight of a huge white bird about to fly over her head. She grasped its tail feathers as it passed, and it lowered her gently--gliding back and forth on an upward stream of air--as if she were hanging from an umbrella in a cartoon. As her feet touched the ground, the desert of snow instantly transformed into a cubical, cement room. Its floor was painted like the chess board. The Doctor and the Dream King were still across from each other on their elaborate thrones, but were encased in a shimmering, transparent cube that looked to Rose like it was made of soap bubbles. When she touched it, it was solid as glass.

“Doctor, can you hear me?” she called, pounding the wall with her fists. He made no indication that he did. “I’m right here! Doctor!”

Still in his slouch, Morpheus inquired, “Have you worked it out, Lord Doctor?”

The Doctor was still poker-faced. “Rose has been asleep--dreaming--the better part of a week. You’ve done something to her.” His hands, palms-down on the table, slowly contracted into fists. “You’re killing her.”

“That is not my intention,” the Dream King said, “Although I admit it may eventually be a side effect. The girl is a bridge to you, Lord Doctor, and to all you have experienced in your many centuries of travel through your infinite realms of Time and the Universe. Her dream-mind is a ribbon of light showing your dreams to me, so that I may be inspired.”

“But Rose hasn’t seen all that I’ve seen; the time she’s been with me is just a wink, a finger-snap. How can she dream about things she doesn’t know?”

Rose was rushing frantically around the glassy box, pounding it with her fists, kicking it, calling for the Doctor.

“I want to wake up now!” she cried. “This is a dream; I know it’s a dream. Doctor, why can’t I wake up?”

The Dream King seemed to wring his hands as he spoke.

“I’ve been puzzling it over, as a matter of fact,” he began. “It’s early days yet--there is much more to discover, I’m sure, the longer she dreams--but it seems that The Bridge--”

“Rose,” the Doctor corrected. “She’s not ‘The Bridge,’ she’s a human being and her name is Rose.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Doctor,” the Dream King replied, then continued. “It seems that your Rose has become the ideal conduit between your realm and mine--” His hand grazed the tabletop momentarily, and as it withdrew a tiny white rose was revealed in the center of a black square in front of the Doctor. “For the simple reason that you have a unique connection to this Rose of yours--” Morpheus tipped his head slightly to one side.

“You love her.” 

The Doctor’s gaze followed the motion of the Dream King’s head-tilt and suddenly, he could see Rose there, crying, fighting, trying to get to him. He leapt to his feet so quickly his chair crashed backward to the floor. In a moment he was looming over the Dream King, fists gripping the arms of his chair.

“I won’t let you kill her just so you can furnish a couple of new rooms in your palace with the stuff in my daft old head.” He gripped the Dream King’s slim wrists in his hands, felt ancient bones grinding together. “Take it.”

The Doctor lifted the Dream King’s hands to the sides of his own head. “Take it!” he repeated. “I know you can--and I’m glad to be rid of it. This mess in my brain is a nine-hundred-year-long nightmare that starts with my birth on a planet that burned and took everyone I ever knew with it, and ends  right now-- with my thanks.”

Morpheus looked thoughtful, considering the Doctor’s words.

“Take it!” the Doctor shouted. “Just leave Rose out of this. In all my life, she’s the only thing I’ve got that’s worth keeping.”

The King of Dreams lay one palm on the crown of the Doctor’s head, the other behind his neck, cradling his skull. His hands were warm and smooth. The Doctor closed his eyes.

“What’s he doing, Doctor?” Rose implored. She shouted at the Dream King, “Don’t hurt him!”

The clear, glassy walls of the cube that enclosed the Doctor and the Dream King turned to black granite, cutting off Rose from the Doctor. She let out a frustrated cry, beat her hands against the wall, then slumped against the cold stone, defeated.

Inside, the King of Dreams was sifting through the Doctor’s memory for inspiration and novelty. Morpheus hmmed and sighed and once even gasped. The Doctor was silent, jaw clenched, a tear brimming in his eye, a deafening sound in his ears like a jet engine.

It seemed to be instantaneous and to go on forever: the Dream King sifting the Doctor’s subconscious, the Doctor feeling as if he were re-living his centuries of life at ultra-high speed, out of sequence, in slow-motion, simultaneously. His brain ached. He thought his eyes might burst. His skin paled; he sweated; he was freezing; he was weak.

Outside the now-secluded chamber that held the Time Lord and the Dream King, Rose lifted her head from out of the crook of her arm, and found herself in a room much smaller than her own bedroom aboard the TARDIS--practically a monk’s cell--with dove-grey walls; a wooden bench; a low bed with a bare mattress and one thin blanket folded up at the end. Beside the bed, on the floor, was a large wooden bowl which held a length of black ribbon, a sprig of holly, and a slightly torn pound-note.

Rose knew she was meant to wait--though she was not entirely sure how she knew this--so she perched on the edge of the bench. Placing her hands on her knees, she noticed she was no longer dressed in the tattered remnants of a wedding gown, but rather in something like a nightgown--filmy, body-skimming, pale violet. Her feet were still bare; the stone floor was cool and rough under her toes.

Rose waited.

Inside the granite cell, Morpheus wore a satisfied, intensely interested look on his long face. The Doctor had slumped practically across the Dream King’s lap, teeth chattering, limbs slack.

“Nearly finished,  Lord Doctor,” Morpheus said, though the Doctor could not hear him over the sound of every memory he’d ever had ringing in his ears, backwards and sideways and awash with static interference. “So much to see. . .” the Dream King marvelled.

The Doctor felt like his bones were melting; he felt his skull shrink and expand beneath the Dream King’s hands, as if it were breathing. He could not think, could not analyze, categorize, or reflect. He was a raw nerve wrapped in his own memories, which were like diamond dust on fire, like freezing while drowning, like a thousand ways to die.

All at once, the Doctor was an explosion of white light and heat, and the fallout that drifted back down to engulf him was darkness and blissful quiet and an end to pain. His breath heaved out in a huge, labored sigh and the King of Dreams was cradling him, lifting him. The Doctor could not remember when he had last felt so completely spent. His limbs were leaden; his breaths long and shallow.

“I thank you, Lord Doctor,” pronounced the Dream King, and the Doctor was aware of the rich, night-dark voice, but found he could neither bring himself to open his eyes, nor to respond. “For all you have shared, I feel I owe you a boon. My gift to you, Doctor: Sleep.” The Doctor felt Morpheus’s bony-fingered hand resting on the crown of his head. “Sleep and dream.”

Rose picked at the scratchy edge of a thumbnail, tried to calculate how long it had been since she’d had a proper manicure.

“Rose?” The Doctor sounded puzzled. Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice and there he stood, just a few feet in front of her, when the previous second she had been alone. She jumped to her feet and launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his back, pressing her face into the hollow of his neck.

“Did he hurt you?” she demanded, leaning back, searching his face for signs of harm. “You’re pale. What did he do to you?”

The Doctor’s face wore a slightly baffled expression. “I think. . .” he looked slowly around the little room, then back at Rose. He smiled. “Ah, hello!”

Rose gave him a sidelong look. “Hello, yourself,” she replied. Her brow knitted with concern and she guided the Doctor by the elbow. “You should sit down; are you all right?” She forced him to sit on the low bed, then perched beside him.

“Rose, I think I’m dreaming,” he marveled. Rose held one of his hands in both of her own. The Doctor beamed. “I think I’m asleep, and this is my dream.”

Still unsure, Rose replied, “You hardly ever sleep, Doctor. This is my dream. I was in the snow, then that big concrete cell with you and the Dream King, then I was here. I’m the one dreaming this.”

The Doctor shook his head. “Morpheus borrowed my memories, and he gave me a boon; he gave me this dream. Look--” he said, and pointed at the wall above the wooden bench. “I think this room needs a window.” A round window appeared in the wall. Rose gasped.

“This is your dream, then?” Rose asked, disbelieving.

“I think we’re dreaming together,” the Doctor said. “You try something.”

Rose said, “Well, this bed, for a start,” and in a blink they were no longer on the thin, sad mattress but rather in the biggest, most luxurious bed Rose could imagine, made up with silk quilts and piles of pillows in every shape and size. The Doctor grinned, and Rose let out a delighted laugh. She flopped backward onto the bed; the Doctor did the same beside her.

She turned her face toward him, still concerned. “Did he hurt you?” she asked, quietly.

“Not really, no,” the Doctor said to the ceiling. He turned his head so they were almost nose-to-nose. “He was hurting you, though, and I couldn’t let that go on.”

“But I’ve been having lovely dreams,” Rose protested, then felt her face flush as she remembered her graphic thoughts of the Doctor. “I didn’t mind it.”

“You’ve been asleep over 20 hours a day, for a week. You could have starved to death, or died of dehydration. . .or woken up and gone mad.” The Doctor’s voice was just above a whisper. “He does things like that. Sometimes.”

Rose did not say anything, but her hand found the Doctor’s and she twined her fingers with his. He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go.

At last, she said, “You’re always saving me.”

“I’ll always keep you safe,” the Doctor replied simply. “Because you are my own Rose.”

They both rolled onto their sides toward each other, their clasped hands between their two bodies.

Rose grinned. “What are you wearing, by the way?”

The Doctor was dressed in beige linen--a tunic and loose trousers.

“I’m asleep; I’m wearing pyjamas,” he replied, mock indignation in his tone. “You don’t like them?”

“No, I didn’t mean anything--” Rose said quickly, blushing. “No, it’s nice; I like it. You look nice.”

“And you,” the Doctor replied. His hand traced the rise and fall of her hip, sliding over the silky nightgown she was wearing.

“Thank you.” Then, “It’s you I was dreaming about.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows questioningly, but said nothing. Rose half-smiled. “Man of my dreams,” she offered.

They were quiet a moment, just searching each other’s eyes. After a minute or so, Rose spoke.

“Your first sleep in how long? And you’re dreaming of me in your bedroom,” she said, and there was a playfulness in it, but also something seductive, and a question.

“Girl of my dreams,” the Doctor replied with a slight shrug.

Rose bit her bottom lip. “Kiss me, then, before I go mad,” she said.

The Doctor hesitated a moment, then his hand tightened on her hip, and in the next moment, his mouth was on hers. Rose pressed her whole body toward him, couldn’t get close enough, forced his lips apart with her tongue, kissed him urgently. The Doctor’s hand moved to cup her bottom and pressed her hips against his; Rose let out a little whimper. Finally the Doctor pulled back a bit, and they were both breathing hard, clasping each other as if afraid to let go.

“Doctor. . .” Rose began, but didn’t finish her thought.

He kissed her again, gently sucking her lower lip between his own. “My own Rose,” he breathed against her mouth. “I don’t know how long we’ve got.” He ran a hand through her hair, caressed her neck. “But I want--”

“Yes,” Rose whispered, “Me, too.”

And all at once they were tugging at each other’s and their own clothes, hands everywhere, hips lifting off the bed, sitting up, lying down, the mad scramble of undressing. Rose stood to lift the nightgown over her head; the Doctor sat on the edge of the bed, reached out to stroke his big hand along her side. Rose looked down at him under her lashes, noting with pleasure that his body was tautly muscled, like a swimmer’s body: ropy arms, flat stomach, sculpted thighs.

“God,” she breathed, “You’re gorgeous.” She ran her hand across his shoulder, down his arm, took his hand and guided it to her breast. The Doctor’s thumb flitted across her nipple and it tightened, tingling beneath his touch. Rose sucked in a sharp breath. The Doctor’s hand behind her neck guided her into another deep kiss.

When they came up for air, Rose gently pushed the Doctor’s shoulder and he lay down on his back. She knelt beside him on the bed, kissed a trail from his mouth, down his neck and chest, his stomach.

Rose was gratified by the gasping sound the Doctor made as she slid her mouth down on his cock, stroking with her hand as she moved her tongue and lips around him. She answered with a drawn out, affirmative hum. His cock was thick--hard and hot as anything. The Doctor’s hand tangled in Rose’s hair, grasped her shoulder, slid down to rest on the small of her back.

Expertly, Rose drew from the Doctor the responses she wanted: sighs, gasping, low moaning breaths, hips rocking upward to meet her. The tone of his vocalizing changed and she backed off, slowed down, withdrew a bit. As the Doctor lay panting, Rose shifted to straddle him, steadying his cock as she slid down upon it. They both groaned with pleasure as she slowly rocked against him.

The Doctor sat up, kissed Rose’s mouth, her throat, her breast. He breathed in the scent of her hair as they embraced; Rose’s hands slid across his back, learning each rise and fall, the sharp edges of his shoulderblades, the bumps of his spine, the curve of his neck into his shoulder.

They moved together--Rose rolling her hips against the Doctor, slowly, savouring the sensation of him so deep inside her--for some time, and Rose’s breath shifted into long, low moans, each deepening and becoming more guttural. Her blonde hair fell around the Doctor’s face as she leaned into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, his hands riding the wave of her hips.

“Yes, Rose, yes. . .” he whispered against her ear, and there was something of a command in it, and something else like pleading.

An ecstatic shock shot through her then, and she groaned against his shoulder, her mouth open, teeth pressing as if to bite, for she felt she could devour him, could pull him apart and climb inside his skin.

As she caught her breath, the Doctor grasped her under her bottom and quickly shifted both their bodies so that Rose was lying on her back beneath him. She grinned up at him, full of lust and mischief and something like triumph. He hooked her knees up around his elbows and was still a moment, gazing at her.

“You all right?” the Doctor asked with a small smile playing about his lips, acknowledging the intensity of her orgasm.

“Never better,” she replied.

“Never?” the Doctor teased. He began to move inside her and she drew in her breath.

“Well, let’s give it a few minutes. . .” she managed to reply, but when the Doctor’s cock slid back and forth against that wondrous spot inside her, she was reduced to something between a grunt and a purr.

They held each other’s gazes until Rose could not but let her eyes drift up and back, then fall closed. The shockwaves jetted through her again as she came. She slipped her hand between their bodies to stroke herself in tiny, rapid circles with one finger, and came again, crying out. The Doctor’s breath heaved and he increased his pace, watching Rose’s face intensely.

He braced himself on his elbows, his face close to Rose’s, and dipped his head to kiss her, then whispered thickly, “You’re so beautiful.”

Rose gripped his thighs, digging in her fingers, pulling him to her, and in just a few moments she felt his cock swell and strain inside her as he came with a heavy groan. Rose moved her hands to the sides of his face, stared hard into his turquoise-blue eyes, raised her head to kiss him. They disentangled their limbs and stretched luxuriantly, but came together again in a new, less frantic tangle, as close to each other as they could get.

As they kissed lazily, deeply, the Doctor’s hand slipped down and edged Rose’s thighs apart; his fingertips teased her into an orgasm that crested again and again, in waves. Rose’s thighs quivered, her belly tightened, then she cried out and sighed and melted into him, again and again.

At last fully spent and satisfied, Rose took the Doctor’s hand gently in her own and moved it away, guiding it to rest on her thigh. He lay on his side, head propped up on his hand, and gazed down at her glowing face.

“Girl of my dreams,” he said again, tenderly, adoringly, and his fingertips moved to trace a line across her belly, around her breast, up her neck. He swept a stray lock of hair away from her eyes.

“Rose, are you crying?” he asked gently, his eyebrows knitting together with concern.

“No, yeah, I’m all right,” she replied, her fingertips brushing his cheek, his lips, then settling on his chest. When she lay her palm exactly in the center, she could feel both his hearts beating. “I’m happy,” she added, but what came out next was a sob.

The Doctor’s voice was soothing. “No, no, don’t cry, Rose,” he implored. “Shh, don’t cry.”

“It’s just a dream,” she said, shaking her head, feeling the Doctor’s heartbeats, moving her body so her skin and his were touching everywhere she could manage.

The Doctor kissed her hair. “Ah, but what a dream,” he whispered against the top of her head. “Best I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t tease me,” she scolded, but he could hear that some of her sadness was leaving her. “This is the only dream you’ve ever had.”

“Well,” he replied, “Technically, yes,” He tilted her face up with a finger under her chin, and looked earnestly into her eyes. “But even if I have ten thousand more, this will still be the best one.”

Rose managed a small smile. They lay there, just breathing. Rose looked intently at the Doctor’s face, closer than he’d ever been to her, his eyes with all their depth staring straight back at her without looking away. Finally, she said, “I love you.”

“My own Rose. . .” he whispered.

Rose kissed him fiercely, clutching at him as if she could pull him inside her skin and keep him close forever. When the kiss ended, she opened her eyes and noticed the glow of morning’s first light coming through the window the Doctor had dreamed for them. Her heart dropped.

Forlornly, she said. “It’s nearly morning; we’ll wake up.”

“Maybe not,” the Doctor offered, and the window vanished.

“No,” Rose said sadly, “I can feel it’s going to end soon.”

All at once, her hand slipped between their bodies, found the Doctor’s cock half-hard and began to stroke him. His breathing deepened and he kissed her neck, her jaw. “I need you,” Rose breathed, and she realised she had never known what it was to need until just this moment; she needed the Doctor with everything she was--needed him more than she needed her breath.

When she’d coaxed from him what she wanted, Rose hooked her leg over his and guided the Doctor inside her. They were a tangle of limbs and breath and sensation; Rose clamped her eyes shut, willing herself to keep dreaming. She felt as if she were underwater, fighting the urge to breathe, but every molecule in her body pressed her ever-upward where she would break through the surface, gasping, and even if she dove down again, she could never get back to where she’d been.

She focused on the feel of the Doctor’s big hands on her body; the sound of his moaning and heavy breath; his voice calling her his own. Momentarily opening her eyes, she noticed the luxurious big bed she’d dreamed was gone; they were embracing instead on the Doctor’s thin, bare mattress, in his windowless cell.

“Don’t forget,” Rose urged him, between kisses across his eyelids and the ridges of his cheekbones. “It’s easy to forget a dream, so whatever you do: Don’t forget.”

The Doctor nodded once and hummed his assent, still thrusting inside her, sweeping his hands over the curves of her body, returning her kisses.

“Promise me, Doctor,” she gasped, and the ecstatic wave was building within her again. “Promise me you won’t forget.”

The Doctor opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead let out a heavy moan, matching Rose’s low whine as they both came.

As the wave receded, Rose shifted against the Doctor, let out a long, sighing breath, noticed that she was uncomfortable. Her eyes opened and she needed a minute to focus.

This time, she really was waking up.

The room was dim, nearly dark, but she could make out that it was, in fact, the Doctor’s room, just as it had been in their shared dream--spartan, dull, nearly empty. She lay beside the Doctor, on his bare mattress, though their bodies didn’t touch. The thin blanket was pulled up over their legs. Rose was dressed in her typical nighttime gear: a t-shirt and shorts, her legs bare down to her blue-polished toes. The Doctor, however, was fully dressed in his usual manner: dark t-shirt and trousers--though his shoes were off and his leather coat lay across the bench built into the wall.

Rose rubbed her eye, shoved her hair away from her face, tasted the inside of her mouth and grimaced.

“Good morning, Rose,” the Doctor said then, in full, cheerful voice, startling her. “Or should I say, ‘Sleeping Beauty?’ Nice to have you back,” he added. That grin.

Rose narrowed her eyes, adjusted the angle of her legs. “What am I doing in here?” she asked, puzzled. “I was having this dream--God, how long have I been asleep?--I think. . .”

She leaned up on her elbow, yawned a bit. “I think you were in it.”

“In your dream?” the Doctor asked, though he did not sound all that curious.

“Yeah,” Rose replied. She was quiet a minute--remembering--but there wasn’t much and it was fading with each passing moment as her brain revved up with thoughts of other, less ephemeral things. “There were some little kids. . .and Mickey was there?. . .This tall, pale man with stars in his eyes. Is there a place called the Martyr something?”

“The Martyrdom Nebula. We were headed there when you started your nap. You’ve been asleep a good long while,” the Doctor half-explained. Then he added, “I’ll take you there sometime, the Martyrdom Nebula.”

“All right.” She scratched her neck, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Yeah, you were definitely in my dream. But--” she stopped, shrugged a bit.

“But?”

“Ah, it’s gone now,” she said dismissively. “I hardly remember any of my dreams.” She sat up, patted the Doctor’s hip with the back of her hand. He quickly swung out of her way so she could climb off his narrow bed. Rose made her way across the cold, stone floor in her bare feet, and did not even look back at him as she added casually, “It’s all right, though.”

The Doctor, who found he remembered every fraction of every second, every scent and sensation of the only dream he’d ever had, watched Rose’s back as she walked out the door.

 

THE END.


End file.
